


Better Late Than Never

by ac_MaryAgnes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, babbling of all sorts, ignores the last two seasons, maybe by chance, sad things are sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-01-25 19:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ac_MaryAgnes/pseuds/ac_MaryAgnes
Summary: The comings are infinitely more interesting than the falling aparts.
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue - In the Park

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in… oh god… 2012? It’s been a while. It had been beta’d by someone, but bless my sieve of a brain, I honestly can’t remember her name. But she was a lovely person and extremely helpful. This had also originally been posted to FF.Net (under a very different pen name), but a while ago I pulled all of my stuff off of there because… I don’t remember why. I think I simply outgrew it. In any case, it’s been a while. 
> 
> The whole series was called The Blonde Man In the Park but since I've decided to repost it here, I've changed that around a bit. This completely disregards the final two seasons of Sherlock - I couldn't watch John get married to anyone who wasn't our favourite boffin in a flashy coat, and the whole sister thing.... No.

Every Tuesday and Thursday at 1:30 pm, the blonde man would take a walk around the park in front of St. Bart’s. Sherlock had first spotted him one month ago, hobbling along the winding path, leaning a bit too much on the metal cane he used. Sherlock hadn’t thought much of him then, the limping man in the park, but the more he saw the man, the more he wondered.

He was a good-looking man, if a bit ordinary. Somewhat athletic (not simply sporty… standard military procedure?); upright, almost marching way of moving about (military confirmed); fond of jumpers (oatmeal, deep blue, soft red) but also wore a jacket over top (not used to the cold – recent military campaigns in warmer climates pointed towards Afghanistan or Iraq); kind but haggard face (seen a lot of action, then, and a lot of lives lost); determined looking (mind of his own, not military-issue and always a plus). Loud noises didn’t startle him, but the man made a habit of running a cursory eye over the tops of buildings and looking behind him from time to time (post-traumatic stress?). Sherlock couldn’t determine what colour his eyes were – he was careful to never get that close – but the man was more tan than most Londoners. Military; not used to the cold yet; seen a lot of recent action; tan: the man must be a soldier back from Afghanistan or Iraq.

Sherlock was living in a tiny apartment near the hospital then, only three blocks away. It was cramped and the neighbours on all sides complained about the noises and smells; Sherlock had just gotten another letter of notice from the landlord. The landlord would never actually give Sherlock the boot – the money was good (more than the other tenants, thank you Mycroft) and consistent – but the letters were an annoyance all the same. Around the time Sherlock had started seeing the blonde man, he had determined to change domiciles. The man in the park – recently _discharged_ from the military, if his bearing (ranking officer?) and injury (had been shot… left leg or shoulder or both?) were anything to go on (they were) – was most likely staying in the temporary housing units for injured military personnel on the other side of London. Sherlock’s guess was near the 256 Field Hospital. It had the best Wounded Warrior care, and the man was both wounded and a warrior (if he wasn’t a warrior, he wouldn’t have been wounded). Sherlock wondered why the blonde man would take the thirty-minute Tube ride into the city just for a walk. He also wondered if the blonde man would be interested in living (with a flatmate) a bit closer to the city. A city that he apparently knew.

The man did not seem as if he were simply wandering. He seemed to know where he was going and what he wanted to do. A native of London, then, or at least lived here before he was shipped off. Specifically, lived near St. Bart’s. The man appeared to know a great deal about the area. Sherlock had followed him one afternoon when he had nothing better to do (Lestrade had no cases; Mycroft was keeping his fat nose blissfully to himself). The baker on King Edward Street knew the blonde man by name. Sherlock did not get close enough to hear what they said, but the familiarity was obvious. Baker’s face lit up in pleasant surprise; blonde man smiled back, also pleased. A brief hug was exchanged; awkward gestures to the shoulder, leg, and cane. A look of caring distress crossing the shop keeper’s face before pushing a large strawberry jam tart into the blonde man’s free hand and not accepting any form of payment. Sherlock went in and bought one just to see; it wasn’t that bad, but not what he would have gotten for himself normally (blueberry muffin precisely the size of his fist). A discussion with the baker and a quick scan of the clientele revealed that medical students frequented the place. So the blonde man had most likely been a medical student. Military _doctor_, then.

Now this was better than a mere coincidence. Sherlock needed a doctor, one of his very own. Not to cure any ailments he might catch (he never did) or to patch him up after a scuffle with a suspect (which happened surprisingly often), but more often than not he needed one to backup forensics for him. Lestrade’s team was if-y at best and stroppy at worst and Sherlock simply didn’t have the time to stroke stupid men’s egos. When there was a case, Sherlock needed to focus and solve the puzzle, not listen to Anderson whinge about how nobody loved him or some such nonsense (Sally didn’t – they just screwed whenever Anderson’s wife was out of town). So when Sherlock figured out that the blonde man from the park was a military doctor, he determined to have him. Military – used to action; thinking quickly on his feet; fast reflexes; a man of great loyalty. Doctor – full of useful medical information; a man of science; understands the need to perform experiments; knows to get all the facts before making a diagnosis. Combined with Sherlock’s natural brilliance, he was certain that they could solve practically anything.

The man was injured (limping wounded warrior, after all), but Sherlock wasn’t too sure that was so much of a problem. He would need more data in order to determine the validity of that injury – the limp looked too forced, but not a complete lie. Possibly psychosomatic? There were a number of therapists in the area so it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that the man would be seeing one of them. Figuring the incompetence of said therapists, Sherlock wouldn’t blame him for needing a walk after an hour spent with one of them. However, any assistant of Sherlock’s would need to keep up with him, so if the limp wasn’t in fact psychosomatic (he really hoped it was) then Sherlock would need to research physical therapy to get his doctor (for that’s what the blonde man would become: Sherlock’s) into top shape.

A month after first spying the blonde man in the park, Sherlock had just finalised the lease on a flat being let by a former client of his – a Mrs E Hudson (dodgy taste in husbands but made fantastic muffins) – when Mike Stamford wandered into the labs one evening. While Sherlock fiddled with a microscope and slides (if he looked busy enough, maybe Mike would leave) the medical professional blathered on about his students (dull) and how dumb they were (wasn’t everyone?) and how much he needed a break from them. Sherlock let a small smirk slid across his face. Mike actually might prove useful after all.

Mike – though mostly stupid, fat and very lazy – was a notorious fixer. If given a personal problem, he’d somehow find a reasonably passible solution for you. Sherlock would use him more often if but for the fact that Dr Stamford was entirely too weak-willed. He wasn’t at all entertaining or engaging or… anything. In addition to needing a doctor, Sherlock also needed someone who might take care of the things he needed – like getting milk or straightening the finances or dashing about London. Mike would do those things but not only would he need to be _told_ to do them, he wouldn’t put up much of a fight about it either. This made Mike incredibly dull; not someone Sherlock would want to work with, quite frankly. The fact that he was married certainly didn’t help. But Mike was about the same age as the blonde man, and had gone to school at St. Bart’s like the blonde man most likely had. The classes at St. Bart’s were kept small, so chances were that they had known each other.

But Mike's appearance that evening gave Sherlock exactly the opening he needed to get what he wanted. 

“Why don’t you go for a walk tomorrow, then?” Sherlock suggested, keeping his voice even and bored. “Weather’s supposed to be nice and you could probably go for an airing out.”

“Yeah…” Mike thought for a moment. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” (_Of course it was, you imbecile._) “I think I’ll do just that.”

Sherlock also knew that Mike was ridiculously easy to steer. It was one of the reasons why he’d never been considered for the position of Sherlock’s doctor/assistant. Being overweight was another reason: he’d never keep up with Sherlock.

“How is your wife, by the way? Found a job yet? I know you’ve been having mortgage troubles.”

“Tiffany’s good – found a position at a local hairdresser’s. I’d ask how you knew about the mortgage, but well.… Anyway, it’s just one of the joys of having your own place.”

“Hmm…. I’m actually moving out of mine. There’s a flat on Baker Street I’ve been looking at, but it’s a bit pricey.”

“Have you thought about a flat share?”

Sherlock’s grin would have split his face if he were the type to grin but all the same, he was glad his back was to Stamford. He was silent for a moment, pausing just long enough to give the impression he was thinking it over.

“Who would possibly want to share a flat with me?”

So what did Mike bring him the very next day after lunch? The blonde man from the park: a Dr John H Watson, formerly Cpt Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He had a mind of his own, dark blue eyes that were at times both hard and soft, a taste for adventure and strawberry jam, and a thankfully psychosomatic limp. John might not have been exactly what Sherlock had been expecting, but John was _his_ doctor and he was perfect.


	2. Secrets and their Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months after the fall, John isn't doing well (to no one's surprise at all).

Someone had once told Mycroft that he only saw the forest and never the trees. When asked to clarify, the person (a girl from his seventh form class) had sighed and looked at him sadly.

"You only see the big picture, Mycroft. You never see the people who make that picture. It’ll be okay for whatever they put you up to in the government, but you'll lose so many more people who care about you that way."

"If there are people in the picture, then I’ll see them when I look at it."

The girl had shaken her head. "That’s not what I mean. But I don't think it's something I can explain to you, My. You’ll have to figure it out."

Mycroft had brushed the comment off at the time. Seventh form was an emotional year for many young people. And as a female, the girl was most likely experiencing some sort of hormone imbalance to begin with. Her crush on Mycroft was glaringly obvious (longing looks, longing sighs, writing their names together in her daily diary) and it seemed like she wanted him to actually learn something from her overly-emotional and extremely naïve words. As if this poor seventh form girl could possibly teach Mycroft anything. Dull little thing had shortened his name, for heaven’s sake; he was a Holmes – no one shortened his name.

It wasn't until rather recently that Mycroft understood what his peer (he couldn’t even remember her name) had meant.

It was a stupid thing that he had done, trading information about Sherlock to a madman for state secrets. Mycroft had done the right thing for Queen and country – it was of the utmost importance that the British Government know what exactly that babbling Irish lunatic knew and what he intended to do with that knowledge. And Moriarty had asked the simplest of questions.

“What is Sherlock’s favourite colour?”

“What does Sherlock like to do in his free time?”

“What did the other students think of Sherlock when he was at school?”

“How did Sherlock get into drugs?”

It all seemed very inconsequential to Mycroft. He didn’t see how Sherlock being teased by stupid children in primary school had any bearing on national security. So Sherlock likes the colour red even though blue looks better on him; that had nothing to do with the codes and plans that Moriarty held. But Mycroft had missed the most important parts of that exchange – mainly two very important trees.

The information on Sherlock (shockingly inconsequential, shockingly intimate) had been used against the young man. The playground bullying had led to drug abuse and a sense of self-importance; a narcissistic view had him doing anything he thought would make him look good, even avoiding wearing his favourite colour. Mycroft didn’t quite know what had happened on top of the roof of St. Bart’s (the CCTV had only been able to record from a distance), but Moriarty had ruined his brother. Sherlock had been so backed into a corner that he felt that the only way to protect those he loved was to fake his own death. And Mycroft had to watch as it destroyed both a great man whom he loved and a good man, one of the last honestly good men Mycroft knew.

John Watson would do anything for Mycroft’s brother, so Mycroft would do anything for John Watson (whether the doctor knew it or not). However strained Mycroft and Sherlock’s relationship (he was responsible for this brilliant boy, so brilliant Mycroft couldn’t even understand him most of the time), Mycroft did care for his brother and only wanted him to be protected and happy. John Watson delivered on both where Mycroft was unable to.

What kind of repayment was this, then: causing the worst sort of suffering for a good man, a man who did everything for Sherlock that Mycroft could not? John Watson was a war hero – both in the desert and on the streets of London – and he deserved better than his all-consuming grief. Grief that was based on a lie that Mycroft had pushed into existence. John deserved to know that his best friend, a man whom he loved in his own way, was alive and coming back to him. But Mycroft had painted Sherlock into a corner (three innocent people for the assumed life of one), so the younger Holmes was stuck until Moriarty's net was destroyed. Only Sherlock knew how long that would take.

Mycroft had well and truly made a mess of things and he would make very certain to never make this same mistake again. He would help his brother as much as Sherlock asked, but Mycroft knew enough that Sherlock needed to be the one taking point on this. This left Mycroft feeling like he was floundering a bit (he was the eldest, he should have been in charge), but what else could he do? Sherlock needed to know that the threat to John Watson was removed completely and the only way he could trust that was if he did it himself. So Mycroft made himself take a back seat in this. At least for the most part; there was that reporter woman to take care of. That would have to come later though – the timing had to be right for it.

One afternoon a little over two months after Sherlock had jumped off St. Bart's, Mycroft’s Intel told him that John Watson was sitting on a bench in the park across from the hospital. According to the CCTV, the blonde man was just sitting there drinking coffee. This would be the perfect time for Mycroft to go and say… something. Anything. There had to be something adequate, something appropriate to say in situations like this. He couldn’t think of much, though.

“I apologize for how my betrayal of my brother has affected you, Dr Watson,” seemed most unsatisfactory given the breadth of the blonde man’s sorrow. Yet it was the only thing Mycroft could think of.

According to the surveillance provided, John Watson had withdrawn entirely from his life prior to Sherlock’s jump. He had moved out of the flat he had shared with Sherlock and did not interact with any persons outside of his work environment. He was not sleeping much and ate only when absolutely necessary. The good doctor wasn’t responding to Mycroft’s calls or texts or any other form of contact (and not just from Mycroft – one Molly Hooper and the Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade were similarly being ignored). But now the man was by himself, out in the open. Mycroft might not be very sure what there was to say, but social morays demanded he say something and Mycroft was never one to let an opportunity like this pass him by.

Anthea followed him like a shadow out the door and into the car.

"I don't think you should talk to him, sir," she told him unprompted, eyes glued to her BlackBerry screen.

Startled – she so rarely voiced her own opinion – he stared. "And why would that be?"

"He’s grieving, sir. You’d remind him of everything he's just lost and the wound is still too raw."

Mycroft sat back against the leather interior of his car. He let out a dismissive snort and twirled his umbrella for a moment. His assistant/bodyguard/keeper (his own version of John Watson) was right; he knew that. He also hated it. Mycroft so wanted to fill the strange void he felt inside himself, the one he had felt since he realized what Moriarty was going to do and how powerless he was to stop it.

"Speak to the good doctor, Anthea; see how he's fairing. I expect a full report upon your return."

"Yes sir."

Once they reached the park, the chauffeur pulled to a slow, smooth stop and Anthea slid out of the car. The BlackBerry disappeared into a coat pocket as she moved towards the park bench. She sat down next to John silently and waited for him to make the first move. She didn't have to wait very long.

"I’m not getting in that car," he told her, his voice level and determined.

"I wasn't going to ask you to." John Watson and Mycroft Holmes in close quarters so soon after Sherlock’s presumed death? Very bad idea.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Checking up on a friend."

"_Not_ your friend," John corrected, suddenly very angry.

Anthea decided to try her hand at a joke; maybe she’d coax a smile out of him. "Fine. On behalf of a very concerned and interested party, I’m here to determine the state of your wellbeing." She turned to look at his profile. "Is that Holmes-y enough for you?"

"You’ll have to shove one more stick up your backside if you wanted to sound like your boss."

It was Anthea who smiled then; glad to hear a grin teasing around the edges of the man's voice, if not visible around his mouth. According to the past month’s surveillance, it was the closest thing John Watson had come to an actual laugh in quite some time. "Probably."

She studied John a moment, taking in the bags under his eyes, the sad lines around his mouth once the grin faded. He was holding himself stiff and ready like he was expecting to jump up and run at a moment's notice. Anthea remembered a program she had seen as a child, one where a man had shouted ‘you’ll never take me alive, copper!’ and waved a gun around before dashing off. John reminded her of that man, tense and prime for a fight.

"You’re staring at the spot where he fell," she observed.

"Can’t seem to help it,” he admitted, his voice tight. "We met at that hospital; I guess it's only right that we ended there, too."

"It’s not right," she told him. "It’ll never be right, something like that." Anthea wholly disagreed with the idea of keeping Sherlock’s survival from John, though she'd never directly say so. It wasn't her place.

"You’re not the first person to tell me that, or even the most qualified."

"Doesn’t make it any less true."

They fell into silence again, just sitting there and watching the front of the hospital. There wasn’t much going on: a few nurses taking a smoking break; some doctors heading out for lunch; a trolley-man delivering flowers; families and friends and patients going in and out. It was like they didn’t know, didn’t care that lives had been shattered on that walkway. All of them were simply walking over where Sherlock’s blood had spilled, where John’s heart had stopped.

“It doesn’t really makes sense,” John said after a while. His voice was quiet, as if admitting some secret to himself. “Some of the things that happened right after he…”

“After Sherlock fell?”

“Yeah.” John couldn’t say it. He’d never be able to. “I don’t know why – maybe because it’s him, you know – but I feel like I’m missing something. Something that would make all of this… more bearable. Somehow.”

Anthea took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was a terrible and fine line she had to walk, knowing what she knew, knowing what she couldn’t say. “Let me know if you ever find that more bearable something. I think my employer could use it, too.” She stood up and, in an odd and almost motherly gesture, ran a hand over John’s blonde head. He jolted under her hand; she had never touched him before. “You’re a good man, John. You deserve better than this. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Yeah.” John’s voice was subdued as she walked back to the sleek, black limo at the curb.

Mycroft was lounging in the backseat of the limo, putting his best unaffected face forward when Anthea re-joined him. He didn’t say anything, just stared at her as the car pulled back into traffic. He didn’t have to wait for long.

“You are familiar with Churchill, sir.”

Thrown, Mycroft frowned and said nothing. It was a very silly question considering to whom she was speaking. Undeterred, Anthea continued.

“You know that he said: ‘Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfils the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.’”

“And?” Mycroft, in a moment of rare density, was not following. Anthea looked away from the window, from the shrinking silhouette of the man on the bench, and stared at Mycroft directly in the eyes.

“This is an unhealthy state of things, sir. If what you’re looking for is absolution from Dr Watson, you’ll be waiting for a while. Possibly even after your brother returns to him.”

Mycroft’s lips folded in and he nodded gravely. “Yes, that is what I feared to be the case.”

Anthea dug her BlackBerry out of her coat pocket. The return ride to the office was a silent one.

* * *

Molly Hooper knew how to keep a secret. Oh, she didn’t like it – no, it made her feel terribly uncomfortable, like her insides were squirming. And certainly not in the ‘Sherlock’s giving me butterflies’ sort of way. But she did knew when to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t like she really had anyone to talk to about things, anyway. Just the bodies on the slabs, and they didn’t really count. She was still careful about what she said out loud when she spoke to them (she never knew who might be listening in), but for the most part Molly kept very quiet about a whole bunch of things. When Molly was young, she never told on her brother when he snuck out. Jamie (a great big fifteen) knew that she knew, and when he asked why his little sister wasn’t tattling on him, Molly just shrugged.

“I don’t really think it’s my business,” she’d said in all her nine-year-old wisdom. Jamie had given her a sweet every time he snuck out after that, so Molly knew that her older brother appreciated her silence on the matter.

Molly also knew that her landlady was skiving on her taxes. The mailman was getting on in years and Mrs Hopper looks a bit like Ms Hooper if you squint a bit. Or a lot, like their mailman. So Molly knew about Mrs Hopper cheating on her yearly taxes, but it wasn’t really her place to say anything so she didn’t. The older woman probably had a very good reason for not paying them properly; it wasn’t Molly’s place to judge. Two days after Molly had returned her landlady’s miss-delivered mail, Mrs Hopper relaxed the ‘no pets’ rule so Molly could get herself a cat. She didn’t even ask for Mrs Hopper to do that – the woman mentioned it all on her own.

“A young pretty thing such as yourself shouldn’t be alone all the time,” the landlady had said one evening when Molly came home from the morgue. “Have you thought about getting a pet, dearie?”

“Oh, uh…” Molly had looked around, not comfortable with the spotlight, especially when it was her not-so-existent social life. “There’s a um… a ‘no pets’ policy on the building Mrs… Mrs Hopper.”

“Oh, I’m sure the other tenants won’t mind if you get a cat or the like. Nice quiet things, cats are, very self-sufficient. Why don’t you and I go down to the shelter in a few days, pick one out for you.”

So that’s how Molly got Toby, the white and grey kitten she had named after a character from one of her favourite movies (the name Jareth was too strange for the sweet little thing). She felt a bit guilty about it, though. Molly knew secrets, but she also knew that exploiting people was bad.

Kind of like how she knew that Sherlock exploited her crush on him every time he wanted something. It wasn’t very nice and it was extremely distracting but Molly always caved, so obviously it worked. If he wanted body parts or organs, all he had to do was vaguely smile once even a little in Molly’s direction. If he wanted coffee, he only had to mention of how tired he was and send a sly look her way. The ‘under-the-lashes’ thing got her every time and it really wasn’t fair. This last one, though… that request was a doosey.

Sherlock needed to die and then disappear. He was going to do something dangerous and quite possibly life threatening and he needed Molly to hide the evidence of his survival. It needed to look like he had died. And once he was safely stashed away... “I need you to keep an eye on John.”

“What?”

“John, my doctor. He’s… he’s my blogger, my doctor, my colleague. John is… he’s my John and –”

“Yes, I… I know who John is, sh-Sherlock,” she stuttered, trying to ignore the pain in her heart. Sherlock cared about John and that was important; her little crush could wait. “You don’t have to… keep repeating yourself.”

“John is going to be… distressed by the coming events, Molly. I need to you make sure he’s okay. Call, text, stalk if need be. Just don’t let him do anything drastic.”

And Molly knew – she just knew – that Sherlock would be contacting her for regular updates. Secret keeping Molly was good at; spying, not so much. But that’s what Sherlock wanted her to do, and for once it wasn’t fetching glass slides or delaying paperwork so he had time to mess about with dead bodies (not… not that way. Just experiments and… oh, don’t be gross). Keeping tabs on John wouldn’t just be for Sherlock’s piece of mind since it might actually help John in the long run. So Molly promised to try.

And after Sherlock performed his magic trick (he wouldn’t say it was one, but Molly didn’t know what else to call it), she really did try. Again and again and again, until Molly wasn’t even sure why she kept trying. John did not want to talk to her. He made this abundantly clear by avoiding her at every turn. She started hanging about the GP John worked at to try to catch him, but he always eluded her. Molly did run into Sarah Sawyer, though – Sarah, who was John’s employer and former (kind of almost, if one date counted) girlfriend. Sarah, who was just as concerned about John as Molly was.

So Molly started to meet Sarah for afternoon tea and drinks after work, just two friends getting together and discussing the welfare of a fellow doctor. Sarah was a wealth of information, far more than Mrs Hudson (who could gab a person’s ear off with gossip). Sarah told Molly about how tired John looked and how hard he was working. He had moved into this sparse little place on the other side of the Thames, very dreary looking according to Sarah. He wasn’t getting difficult to work with – in fact, John was now seeing most of the patients because he was going through them so quickly – and he was always on top of his paperwork. But he still didn’t seem quite right. He was drained, his left hand shook sometimes, and he was willingly working himself into the ground. Molly always had so much to tell Sherlock when he called after she saw Sarah.

Sherlock, however, wasn’t quite so thrilled.

“Sarah says this, Sarah says that – I don’t want to know what _Sarah_ says, Molly. Tell me what _John_ says. What is _he_ doing?”

“I don’t know!” Molly yelled over the phone, finally fed up with him and John and everybody. “He won’t talk to me! He won’t answer my calls or my texts, he doesn’t want to meet for coffee or catch up, he always says he’s busy. He literally ran in the other direction when he saw me yesterday, Sherlock. The only news about him that I can get is from Mrs Hudson – who is doing just fine, by the way – or Sarah. And she says he’s working too much.” Molly took a breath and calmed herself.

“He’s just so… withdrawn, Sherlock,” she continued softly, gently. “He has been since…. He’s not talking to anyone, really… not even that inspector fellow from the Yard – who is also doing just fine, even though Mrs Hudson says he’s worried he might be losing his job soon. But John isn’t doing well and he misses you terribly. He’s not obsessing, I don’t think, but it's clear he hasn’t let it go yet. But it… it has only been three months.”

Molly heard the consulting detective sigh through the phone line and wished there was something more she could do. Like give him a hug. Or even give John a hug, if that would make Sherlock feel better.

“Still so much left to do,” Sherlock mumbled from his side. “Even more, if I’m wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“Don’t mind that. I need you to keep your eyes on John until I return, Molly. You’ve… you’ve been very good, ah… you’ve proven yourself invaluable to –”

“Don’t Sherlock,” she interrupted his rambling. “It’s… it’s really no trouble. You care for him a great deal and I know he cares for you too. It’ll be okay,” she added, trying to infuse some hope and cheer into her words.

“Thank you, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’re a good friend. I’m glad I asked you to watch over him.”

It was the highest compliment Molly had ever gotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the timing of this is going to be pretty wibbly. Sorry about that. I know in the show and in the books, it was three years between the Fall and Holmes' glorious return, but this'll take less time than that. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. Little Lambs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more months go by, and the fall-out begins to strike others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry (so sorry) for the drunken rambling.

“I don’ like bombs, Mrs H,” Greg Lestrade mumbled. He was face down at her kitchen table, arms up around his head, three sheets and waiting to sober up before he went home to a very empty flat. Ex-missus had finally moved the last of her things out that evening, one of the many reasons Greg was drinking that night (the rest of them included three very annoying men – one was dead, the other might as well have been, and the last one was a crocodile).

“And why’s that, dearie?” Mrs Hudson was only half paying attention. The other half was making the strongest sober-up-cure she knew; it always worked on her little brother, bless his poor rotting liver.

“Well, they make a bloody mess, don’t they? Lives lost, property all bolloxed – and then noffin’ but paperwork, you know? And they’re noisy buggers, ain’t they? Flash, bang, and suddenly you’re on the groun’ and your ears are ringin’ – can’t hear a damn fing.”

Poor drunken lamb.

“Oh yes, detective,” Mrs Hudson chirped from the pantry. “I remember when that gas line exploded across the street last year. I had been down the way a bit, you know, and my goodness what a sort of noise that was.”

Greg grunted. “’s a whole mess a dummies who learn to defuse ‘em, too. Bunch of loony sods – show up, chuffed to Jesus, and smiling. Why on earth would anyone want to smile about a detonated bomb? Okay, so’s nice when the Bomb Squad gets ‘ere in time and takes care of the bloody fing, but still. You’d have to be some kind of idiot to think: ‘Yeah, I wanna get up close an’ personal wif dangerous exploding shit when I’ve grown up.’ And Sherlock, oh god, Sherlock bloody Holmes. Man was the biggest kind of bomb there was. Damn near un-diffusible, an’e blew up right in my face.”

“Oh detective, you have been in your cups tonight,” Mrs Hudson tsk’d and shook her head. “Your metaphors have gone all stretchy.”

“Is not stretchy,” Greg protested, his dizzy head shooting up from its resting place as Mrs Hudson set down a full glass of mysterious brown goo in front of him. “Is poetic. Sherlock Holmes was The Big Un’ and John Watson was the dummy who followed ‘im ‘round doin’ the defusin’. And I had to watch it all happen… couldn’t stop it.”

“Hard to stop a pair like that, now.” Mrs Hudson sat down on the other side of the table and fussed with the plate of biscuits she had put out when the detective had first arrived. “They were messy and loud, but aren’t all boys? Every now and then they’d… well, have a domestic and John would go for a walk about, but for the most part they were the most stable pair. Even Mrs Turner’s married ones thought so.”

Oh, she did miss them – even the fighting and yelling and strange smells and her poor wallpaper…

“Sherlock was a great man,” Greg grumbled. “Mad as a bag of ferrets, but he was still great! But now he’s gone and John is… lil’ man, so lost wifout his Big Un’. He won’t talk to me, Mrs H, he’s so angry. I try,” he looked up at her, bloodshot eyes desperate. “I call an’ text an’ I dropped by his new flat once, an’ his work. Noffin’; always busy. Called him in for cases, you know – killer ones, dossy ones. But he just…. Nope. I did wrong and this is what he does for it. Can’t even be arsed to go for a pint.”

“Well, you’ve had enough pints for two men this evening, detective,” Mrs Hudson sighed. John’s grief was no one’s business but his own. Maybe it was time to try her hand at a little defusing. “Maybe he doesn’t think he needs to, what with you doing all the drinking for him. And in the middle of the week! As for seeing John, well. We’ve met for afternoon tea sometimes. He won’t come here, of course – too many memories – but he seems fine. He talks about the weather, his work, asks after my hip; he’s such a good boy. He does seem a bit frayed around the edges, but he misses his partner and it’s only been a few months after all. Those boys were awfully close. Give the poor lad some more time; he’ll come around, inspector.” The DI’s head started wobbling back and forth in a silent, drunken ‘no’.

“No more ‘spector, Mrs H. ’m gonna to lose m’job,” Greg mumbled, twirling his still-full glass of brown sludge. “Sherlock came an’ detonated m’life an’ now ‘e’s gone an’m goin’ to lose m’job! Chief Super don’t like that I pulled in an ‘amateur’ – as if Sherlock Holmes was ever anyfing ov’ver than brilliantly right about everyfing. And I know Chief Dicky wouldn’t care so much about John if he hadn’t chinned him… Pompus Wanker… John’s a proper doctor. Knows ‘is shit ‘bout… ‘bout medical shit. But the Chief Super… stupid fat git. They’re’ll be a ban on invs… investo… on lookin’ into Sherlock’s old cases soon – big brov’ver Holmes fink’s he’s bein’ all subtle as. But won’t come before ’mfired.” Greg took a deep shuddering breath, his shaky hand tightening on the cool glass in front of him.

“Shouldn’t’ve let ‘em be arrested, Mrs H; meither of’em. I should’a fought it harder. I mean, I tesst John – give ‘em a warning, you know. Piddled around, gave ‘em time to bunk off. But they was still there, Mrs H, and I had to do it then, dinn’t I? And Sherlock knew – he knew, he I had to’o my job n’all. But it was the worst feeling, betrayin’ ‘im and all ‘ey’ve done for me… for the div’sion. He looked me right in the eyes, Mrs H, and noffin’ was the same.” Greg’s free hand scrubbed at his face, trying to get the crying feeling out of his eyes. He was a man, damn it, and this was his fault; he had no business crying about. But he did, really.

“John hates me for it, and I can’t even blame ‘im. Hell, I hate those bloody yard vultures just the same as he does, but to John… to John Watson, I am one. So now m’wife’s moved out an’ John blames me an’ Sherlock’s gone an’ I’m going to lose m’job!”

“They wouldn’t fire you, detective,” Mrs Hudson cooed, reaching across the table to pat one of his hands. Poor drunken, silly lamb. “You’re a very good detective, you know. Sherlock always thought so. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have helped you so much. If anyone should be fired, it’s that Kitty Riley reporter. Nasty little girl.” Mrs Hudson shook her head with a sneer.

“Oh she’s been sacked,” Greg looked up with an impish grin. “Given the boot and slapped with a big lawsuit to match. 'appnened earlier this week. I'en keepin' m'ear to the groun' and good ol’ My-crof' ‘as finally got everyfing he needs to prove Moriarty’s real. Richard Brook’s been erased and James Moriarty is as real as you er’me. Or was. Bastard’s dead.”

“Language, detective,” Mrs Hudson reprimanded gently. “You drink what’s left in that glass now, every bit, and tell me exactly what’s happening to that poor misguided Riley bitch.”

* * *

Kitty Riley was in deep shit.

Sitting in the hallway of the courthouse – the very court house where Rich- no, where Moriarty had been put on trial – she tried very desperately to calm down. Deep breaths, head between her knees because she was feeling so nauseous. All she had wanted to do was bring truth to the ‘Moriarty’ case, make Sherlock Holmes seem like an actual human. Get an exclusive interview with the Man Behind the Brain. Was that so bad? And the promotion she had gotten was… it had been what she had wanted her whole life! Lead Reporter, Kitty Riley; no more gossipy human interest pieces for her, absolutely not. She was putting her big-girl-knickers on and dealing with the Real Issues in the world. Kitty was making it, making a name for herself. She’d wanted to go into political journalism since she was a girl, and had majored in investigative journalism to get an edge. Now she was in the thick of things – Prime Minister, people of the Parliament, watch out for Kitty Riley!

Yes, it had been terrible that Sherlock Holmes (fraud, fraud, fraud) had felt so horrible about being found out that he had killed himself. But the news, the Real Issues, the credibility! Kitty’s star burned bright and fast as she shot straight up in the ranks. She would have made Editor In Chief before the year was out, she was absolutely certain.

And then… her bright, hot star had burnt out. Oh, how horribly had it! It didn’t even explode, except maybe in her face.

She’d received all sorts of threats in the mail after the (so well written, so well researched) piece on Holmes, mainly from supporters and fans of John Watson’s blog (poor, stupid John Watson, who’d been so easily taken in by a fancy man in a long coat). Both the door to her flat and her car had both been vandalised with nasty words in bright yellow paint (the same kind that had been cropping up in London as ‘I Believe’ tags); she’d gotten offensive calls left on her ansaphone; someone had planted stink bombs in her mail box and in her dry cleaning. But Kitty knew these were just people who were resistant to being disillusioned; they had been afraid of the truth in what she was saying (that’s what her mum had always said whenever she’d gotten a particularly foul response to one of her articles). So one more letter meant nothing to her.

Last Monday, she’d received that one more letter in the mail. It had looked oddly official and it stated in no uncertain terms that Kitty was to publish a formal apology to Sherlock Holmes, the Holmes estate, and to Dr John H. Watson for all the lies she had spread and all the hurt she had caused. The letter said that if she failed to do so, she would be taken to court. Foolishly, Kitty had ignored it. She thought nothing of it at all until this past Monday afternoon.

She had been sacked. Shown a pink slip and the door. Told to collect her things and kindly be on her way. Turn in her press badge at the front desk – they were waiting for her. Kitty had asked why – she was at the top of her game! She hadn’t done anything wrong. Paul, her Editor In Chief (she so wanted his job!) handed her a letter, one that looked suspiciously like the one she had received a week ago.

“Came in just this morning,” he’d said. “It’s a notice that you’re being taken to court for slander. And not just for some small article – it’s for the Sherlock Holmes exposé you did. They say they have air-tight evidence that you lied – freely and willingly – to destroy another man, his reputation and livelihood, and that of his loved ones. We can’t have that kind of black mark on our paper and we certainly can’t afford that kind of lawsuit.”

“But… but I have research on all that. I have sources – extremely credible sources – backing that whole piece up! They can’t do that!” The article was framed in her office for pity’s sake; she was practically a living ledged back home. Paul had shaken his head.

“They can, and they’re going to, and they’ll win. I made a few calls to your ‘extremely credible sources’; not one of them exists, Kitty. And no one’s heard of Richard Brook. The children’s show stint was a set-up – recorded in some bloke’s basement with crap equipment. Even the jury members at Moriarty’s trial are admitting that they were threatened – by Moriarty – to pass a ‘not guilty’ verdict. Apparently, Moriarty’s dead now and the threat’s been disposed of. But you let yourself get taken, Kitty, and you said some pretty horrible things. This is a paper – a real newspaper, not a pit of mud to drag people through. Controversy makes the world go ‘round, but I cannot have a reporter on my staff that cuts corners like that, and especially not on a story that probably led to one man killing himself. You have to check and recheck and then check again, Kitty; you know that. I will not have this paper in ruins because you don’t know how to confirm your sources. And I can’t stand behind one of my lead reporters as they go to jail for something like this – we’d never recover. So I’m going to have to let you go.”

So now here she was, summoned to appear in court and slapped with charges of slander and libel. She’d barely been able to find a lawyer in time for her court date (only two days after she’d been sacked!!) and her lawyer sucked; Kitty was the one doing most of the talking for her side. She had brought in everything she had used for that exposé – every scrap of information she could find. Every interview (paper transcripts and audio recordings), every phone number she’d dialled (most of which she had re-dialled from other phones just to make sure they were actual working numbers), everything she still had on Richard Brook (even the grocery receipts she’d kept when he was staying with her). She had called in every favour she had ever gained and… and she was still going to go to jail. The evidence against her was overwhelming.

Kitty Riley’s life was over.

A shiny pair of black leather heels appeared in front of Kitty’s feet. She looked up slowly to avoid the blood-rush from her head (and to spare herself from further nausea) and saw a surprisingly pretty woman in a (obviously expensive) black dress, tapping away at her BlackBerry.

“Miss Riley,” the woman said. It didn’t sound like she was asking, but rather stating for a fact who Kitty was.

“Yes?”

“Follow me.” The woman turned and walked down the hall. Kitty watched her go, frozen in her seat and confused. “If you don’t want to go to prison, that is.” That got Kitty up out of her seat, snatching up her purse and files, and scurrying after the mysterious woman.

“What… what’s going on?” she asked once she caught up. “The trial’s only got about three minutes of recess left. I can’t really be away long.”

The woman kept her eyes on her phone (how could she see where she was going?) and continued to lead Kitty through a series of hallways.

“Really,” Kitty pressed, “Does this have to do with my trial? I didn’t lie – I have proo-”

“Go in,” the woman said, stopping in front of a slightly open door.

“What?”

The woman looked up (finally) and smiled at Kitty like she thought the girl stupid.

“Go. In,” she enunciated clearly. Then she pointed to the door in front of them. “That door, right there.”

“But… why? What’s behind it?” The woman rolled her eyes and began typing on her phone again.

“You’re the reporter,” she said, turning to walk away. “You figure it out.”

Kitty watched after her a moment, confused as to what exactly was going on. Eventually, though, her curiosity got the better of her and she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It looked like the office of a very well off, very old lawyer (it was, though Kitty had no way of knowing that – all personal information had been scrubbed for the man’s safety). There was dark wood furniture, old law books on built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases that surrounded the deep burgundy carpet. The room was dim but the drapes were drawn from the windows and there was a lamp on. The large, black leather chair behind the desk was turned away. An umbrella leaned against the edge of the desk.

“What the hell?” she murmured, still taking in the room. Suddenly, a hand appeared from behind the chair and waved her towards the client seats.

“Do sit, Miss Riley,” a very posh male voice said, surprising her. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

“What… what’s going on?” she asked, lowering herself into a chair. She wasn’t afraid – not yet – but certainly cautious. She had every right to be.

“Miss Katherine ‘Kitty’ Laura Riley,” the man continued, “thirty two years of age, born November 6th. Red-blonde hair enhanced with colourant, light green eyes, 9.7 stone. Mother’s name: Mary Susan Riley, nee Thompson. Father’s name: George Ewen Riley. Siblings: one older sister by three years – Georgette Elisa Riley-Collins; twin brothers five years younger – Thompson Ewen and Samson Gregory Riley. I could go on, but family trees do get tedious. Graduate from the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Language College in Islington, class of 1996. Not the top of your class, but you did well enough on your A-Levels. Top marks in French, I believe. Madame Williams had wonderful things to say about you. You still live in Islington, is that not correct, Miss Riley?”

“How… how do you know all that?”

“Public record, Miss Riley. Attended City of London University, both Undergraduate and Master’s Degree in Newspaper Journalism, graduated class of 2003. Perhaps you should have spent more time on your studies; Ms Waterhouse certainly thinks so. She was most disappointed in you, Miss Riley, when she heard about you being taken to court for your lack of investigative skills.”

The chair spun to face Kitty. A grim looking man sat there, cold hawk-like eyes freezing her to her chair. The man (slicked back hair, beaky nose, disappointed expression) was in a grey three-piece suit, black tie in a perfect Windsor-knot, and seemed frighteningly formidable. Not like a street thug, but not someone you’d welcome into your home, either. The way he looked at her made Kitty wonder of he was trying to draw her soul out through her nostrils.

“As I am most sure you have figured out, Miss Riley, I am the one pressing charges against you. As for what you are doing here, well… I am willing to drop the whole case. For a price, of course.”

“All I did was –”

“Lie, Miss Riley,” he cut her off. “All you did was lie, and then you profited off those lies while innocent people suffered.”

“I didn’t tell Sherlock Holmes to jump off that building. He did that himself. If it was because he’d finally gained a conscious –”

“It was because someone was threatening people he cared very much about, Miss Riley, but I am not going to be the one to tell you that story. In fact, you will never get your hands on what led to Sherlock Holmes’ final actions – your infantile brain wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. However, I will give you all the evidence you need to write a fascinating, completely honest story about a man named James Moriarty – a story that will put you back on the map, as it were – if you do two things.”

“I’ll not compromise my integrity as a journalist –”

“You already have, Miss Riley, and if you would like to go to prison and miss this sole opportunity to redeem yourself, be my guest.”

Kitty blinked; this was getting weirder and weirder.

“Look,” she said, trying to be stern but still nervously wringing the strap of her purse, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I need to –”

“I am merely a concerned and interested party in regards to the reputations of Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. Please understand that if pushed I will win this court case, Miss Riley, and any hearing you try for thereafter. You will go to prison – for a very long time, if I see fit – if you do not do as I say.”

“Are you threatening me?” Kitty asked, outraged, wishing she had her recorder with her instead of in the evidence room. The man’s face went from disappointed to incensed within seconds.

“I do not know where you think you are, Miss Riley, but you are on trial for slander.” The way he said it, it sounded like ‘murder’. “I have more evidence than you can twitch your over-powdered nose at and I will win. You will not simply pay a fine for this as others would in smaller cases – I am pushing this to the full extent of the law and you will get put away. That is not a threat; I am merely stating fact. What I am offering is to settle this out of a courtroom. I am not asking for money, either, so put all thoughts of opening your meagre little cheque book out of your mind this instant. The more you annoy me, the more likely I am to leave this room and finish this the way your pitiful lawyer expects me to.”

Kitty blanched. So he was serious about all this, then. Well, obviously if he was taking her to court, but he was actually going to push for jail time if she didn’t settle. Kitty didn’t think that she’d do very well in jail. “What… what would you want me to do?”

“An apology,” the man said, relaxing in his seat and looking vaguely pleased. “Just as I specified in the letter sent to your home. No less than 600 words, to be sent to every newspaper in London. I want the world to know that you are sorry, Miss Riley. Take out a full page add, make flyers and hand them out on street corners if you have to. Or make a blog.” Here, the side of his mouth twitched and Kitty wondered if he was trying to make a joke.

“After that, you will be sent a file containing evidence of Moriarty’s existence and the truth of his dealings with Sherlock Holmes.” Not everything – he new better than that now. “Upon its arrival, you will write an article retracting everything you have ever said or implied about the fraudulency of Mr Sherlock Holmes, and you will… oh let’s say… ‘set the record straight’. You will submit it to me for my approval; I will provide instructions later as to how that is to be done. Once I have deemed it ready, I will send along. Again, I want the world to know.”

“How… how will the story get out? _The Sun_’s fired me and I don’t think any other place will take me now that I’ve been taken to court for… this.”

“Your state of employment or lack thereof is none of my concern, Miss Riley. I certainly didn’t tell anyone to fire you. Your apology and the story will spread because I will make it so. How that happens is not information you need to be privy to. If you are as intelligent as your school marks once reflected, perhaps you may be able to save what is left of your pathetic career this way. It does seem to be mutually beneficial, I believe. But teacher wants your best work, Miss Riley. There will be no opportunities for a… what is the phrase… a ‘do-over.’ I am afraid my grading system is far harsher than you are used to, and most unforgiving. Do you understand, Miss Riley?”

“So… so all I have to do is say I’m sorry –”

“Very, _very_ sorry.”

“Very, very sorry… and write that article and then… I won’t go to jail?”

“In over-simplified terms, you are correct Miss Riley. So glad you are capable of following along.”

“And you… you probably have a contract or something for this, right? You don’t look like someone who would take me at my word.”

“Naturally.”

“Contracts mean negotiating terms, right? I want to be Editor In Chief. I don’t care what paper, but I want it. Or I won’t do this.” She rushed it out all at once, a final grab for the brass ring. The man looked down his nose at her, bewildered, like she suddenly started speaking in a different language.

“You seem to be operating under the assumption that you have a chip to bargain with, Miss Riley. It’s almost as if you are asking to be locked away.”

Kitty bit her lip and frowned. “Not Editor In Chief, then?”

The man rolled his eyes and gave a dissatisfied huff. This was why he didn’t like to deal with the rabble. “As previously mentioned, the state of your employment is none of my concern, Miss Riley.”

“You know,” she burst out, “it’s really creepy how you say my name like that. I don’t even know what to call you.”

“You don’t need to call me anything. Even if you had that information, you certainly wouldn’t know what to do with it.” Mycroft wasn’t stupid. He might have sold his brother out to a mass-murdering Irish berk with a reporter on a leash, but he wasn’t about to let himself get burnt in the same fire. “Now, do we have a deal, Miss Riley?”

Kitty looked at him for a full minute, eyes squinted as she thought. She didn’t want to admit that she was wrong, and she certainly didn’t trust this strange man, but she didn’t want to go to jail more.

“Where do I sign?”


End file.
